


A rare confluence of events

by khaleesian



Category: Anthropomorfic
Genre: Companionable Snark, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 22:25:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5515514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khaleesian/pseuds/khaleesian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>London rail stations out on the lash and attempting to pull.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A rare confluence of events

**Author's Note:**

  * For [incandescent (lmeden)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lmeden/gifts).



“…And I don’t even have a decent pub.” Blackfriars whinged aggressively, touching off a flurry of eye-rolls up and down the bar.

  
“That’s not true.” Highbury & Islington examined the amber of his pint glass and replied without thinking. “You’ve got a Slug and Lettuce just up the street from you.”

  
Blackfriars glared back at him while the rest of them sounded a chorus of titters and guffaws. “Thank you for making my point. Beautifully done. Just masterful.”

  
Highbury & Islington shrugged with a grin, trying to make it seem as if the joke had been intentional. Angel looked serenely sympathetic while Stratford looked wry. They both had their share of naff chain pubs, Weatherspoons with laminated menu cards and fruit machines. That kind of thing was nobody’s fault.

  
“Silly season, my arse.” Blackfriars continued in a loud grumble. “You would think these miserable buggers would lighten the load now that the fiscal year is done and dusted…”  
“Buncha lawyers you got, mate.” Bank station hiccupped incredulously. “Just wankers, not bankers.”

  
“I’ve got bankers! I’m in the Square Mile.” Blackfriars insisted. He stopped for a second, visibly searching for the phrase. “I’ve got…wealth managers! Po-faced arselickers never get their heads out of their newspapers.”

  
“Christ, y’boring my tits off, talking gash about your commuters, Black.” London Bridge drained his pint. “As if you’re some special snowflake. We’ve all got ‘em, y’knob!”

  
This seemed to be an invitation to a general bitch. Highbury & Islington signaled the barman and tuned out while he watched Blackfriars scowl and gesticulate. He wanted to feel sympathy even if he agreed wholeheartedly with London Bridge’s estuarial wisdom.

  
Your commuters were your life’s blood after all. They filled you up with their energy all the livelong day. Your commuters defined your essence. Blackfriars was chock full of sarcastic arseholes all day, hence here he was doing a blistering good impression of a sarcastic arsehole.

  
Highbury & Islington had a deep affection for his commuters; the way they pressed on his walls, examining his posters and running their hands over his bannisters. Plodding down his stairs or leaping up his escalator. Crowding his platforms with their heat and echoing murmur.

  
But commuters could be poison too, defacing you from the inside with their malice or carelessness. Infecting you with their ennui, resentment, inertia and inchoate rage. Even to the point where….

  
Covent Garden gasped, sat up very straight and knocked her drink over. There was a ripple through the bar. Highbury & Islington noticed that that almost the entire length of the Picadilly line had made themselves scarce which could only mean one thing. Person under a train.

  
Transport for London were expert in the clever craft of passive voice and euphemism. No telling how this or that person had gotten themselves under a train. It put the wind up everybody.

  
“Oh dear,” moaned Angel. “And we were having such a good time.”

  
“The silly season.” Waterloo sighed. “I hate the holidays. Seems like it makes everyone drunk or depressed. Or both.” Everyone took a deep quaff.

  
Highbury & Islington buried his head in his pint, hiding his guilty expression. His commuters came to him warm from a half dozen lovely pubs, breathless from streets of charming shops, peaceful from a tramp through the Highbury Fields with its majestic oak trees. He loved Christmas. It tickled him in his lost and found. Every year someone brought a Christmas tree home on a train and he adored the smell of Norwegian fir.

  
“And where’ve you been, you posh twats?” London Bridge roared at King’s Cross and St Pancras who had just turned up, looming over Farringdon’s shoulder. King’s Cross tossed off some imprecations about the Northern line and didn’t hesitate before standing a round to a general wave of approval. Everyone liked King’s Cross, except Waterloo who occasionally struggled to contain her envy.

  
It was impossible to like everyone, Highbury & Islington thought. He couldn’t stand his nearest neighbor, Essex Road, who was completely devoid of anything approximating a personality. Cannon Street was so bland that he was easy to walk right past. Highbury & Islington guessed it was almost better to have a slightly unpleasant, prickly demeanor. At least then you weren’t stultifying boring.

  
“What’s the rumpus then, you miserable bastards?” King’s Cross was fresh as a new penny, even at this hour of the night. Highbury & Islington had admired the dual renovation even as his own, more modest one continued apace.

  
“Blackfriars is having an epic whinge.” London Bridge leered around his fag end. “They’re coming at him from the top and the bottom now and he can’t take it.”

  
“What are you implying, you knuckle-shuffling chav?” Blackfriars sputtered.

 

“Keep yer pecker up.” London Bridge continued phlegmatically. “Yer solar powered, thought you’d have a sunnier disposition.”

  
“I was bombed, you know.” Blackfriars couldn’t quite stifle the edges of a hiccup. “They bombed me and put up an…office block.”

  
“Belt up, y’nit!” London Bridge growled with a significant look to his right. Cannon Street murmured, “Really old fellow, Aldgate and Moorgate are sitting just there.” Angel sighed, “Just ten years on! It’s like yesterday.”

  
But Blackfriars was past the point of no return. “Germans. With planes….aren’t a few kids with… with…” Highbury & Islington assumed he wanted to say “backpacks” but the words were sticking and stumbling now. He clapped Blackfriars on the shoulder and said, “Let’s send ‘em all back to the terminus old boy, shall we?”

  
******

“Do you have a dragon?” They were quayside now, breathing deep huffs of cool damp air off the Thames. The tide was high and the water slapped the pilings in a friendly way.

Blackfriars squinted at him suspiciously as if it was the start of a joke at his expense. “What?”

“You said you were in the Square Mile.” Highbury & Islington explained slowly. “So I wondered if you had a dragon guarding you.”

“Yes.” Blackfriars started grudgingly. Then he brightened, “Down on my south side.” His mood seemed to darken again as he spoke. “London Bridge has two. I expect no one knows I’ve got one too.”

“Well now I know.” Highbury & Islington said mildly.

“So you do.” Blackfriars bobbed his head, conceding the point. In the pre-dawn light his stillness could be mistaken for peace. He had good lines, Highbury & Islington thought.

“I was bombed, you know.” Highbury & Islington said airily.

“You never.” Blackfriars started but he looked uncertain.

“I was.” Highbury & Islington shrugged. “June, 1944.”

“I seem to remember you looked more…Victorian.” Blackfriars was obviously trying to be delicate in his own fashion. A shamed look flitted over his features quickly. “I forget sometimes that we’re about the same age. What’d they do to you then, after the bomb?”

“I have a plaque now. And a roundabout.” Highbury & Islington rocked on his heels.

Blackfriars blinked several times in quick succession and made a choked sound that Highbury & Islington realized was a strangled laugh. “A roundabout?”

“It’s got some trees. But it’s very dangerous.” Highbury & Islington said with mock severity. “Cyclists die. Like every year a couple.”

Blackfriars attempted to stifle his laughter but it came snorting and chortling out of him like a steam engine. It was ridiculous and totally endearing. “It’s not funny, I’m sorry.”  
Highbury & Islington chuckled along with him. “The buses are out of control.”

This sent Blackfriars into another gale of laughter. “Why are you so…?”

“Devilishly handsome? Charming? On time? Efficient?” Highbury & Islington hazarded.

“Cheerful.” Blackfriars gave him a long look and then looked away. “It wasn’t so long ago…”

“That the Holloway Road was kind of a slum?” Highbury & Islington kept his tone light. “That you only went to the Angel for drugs or whores?”

“Yes. Yes, that.” Blackfriars was chewing on the corners of his beard now but his frenetic annoyance seemed to have abated.

“I’m only 150 years old.” Highbury & Islington mused. “Maybe it’s because was two stations once.”

“So was I.” Blackfriars muttered as if to himself.

“Things were good for yonks. And for sure they were bad for yonks. I barely remember the 1980s.”

Blackfriars nodded in sympathy.

“Someone…one of my commuters opened a flower shop on Upper Street, right next to the churchyard. And then there was a bistro and then they polished up a couple of the pubs. And then they opened up an art gallery. And that meant more restaurants and then a dozen estate agents. And then a new stadium.”

Blackfriars was still looking at him, as if hypnotized.

“So it goes up, so it goes down. Eventually, sometime, there will be a rare confluence of events.”

“Eventually, someone opens a flower shop?” Blackfriars actually sounded earnest.

Highbury & Islington smiled.

“Look at this river view.” Highbury & Islington took in all the twinkling lights. “And look, you do have a nice pub.”

“It’s Art Noveau.” Blackfriars said quietly. They stood in silence for a while as a few office parties broke up and boarded trains back to the suburbs. They felt the moment when their commuters drifted off, lulled by the gentle sway of the trains.

“Come up to my local.” Highbury & Islington offered quickly, trying to make it sound like a command. “It’s not Art Noveau, but I think you’ll like it.”

“All right.” Blackfriars agreed slowly. “What’s it called?”

“The Famous Cock.” Highbury & Islington linked their arms so they could walk in tandem.

“I don’t know why I’m trusting you.” Blackfriars purred. “You’ve got shitty taste.”

“Well, obviously.” Highbury & Islington said and grinned.


End file.
